Saturday, April 28, 2007

11:15 a.m.

Yvette had provided a list of thirty addresses she had “opened” for Gabrielle since the first of the year. Luckily, she’d written down the addresses in her day-runner-a practice Gabrielle surely would not have approved of.

There had been additional addresses the previous year, but she’d tossed her 2006 planner and without it they all ran together in her mind. Stacy had acquired a full list of all Gabrielle’s listings, but wouldn’t resort to those unless Yvette’s proved a bust.

Rene Baxter, Stacy’s partner in this investigation, had offered to drive, and she had jumped at the offer. They had warrants for each address and an agent from Gabrielle’s office had agreed to accompany them, serving as the property owners’ representation.

Rene was following the agent’s chamois-colored Camry. Buster, a seventy-five-pound drug-sniffing yellow Lab and his handler, Bob, were following them in the K-9 cruiser. B & B-as the two were known around the NOPD.

They had crossed Poydras Street and were heading into what was called the Warehouse District.

“When I was a kid, this entire area was empty warehouses. Pretty much urban blight. Now look. High-priced condos and trendy clubs.”

And restaurants, Stacy saw. Art galleries. Very hip.

“A condo there-” Baxter pointed to a three-story building “-can cost a half a million bucks. How screwed up is that?”

Stacy didn’t comment and he angled her a glance. “You’re quiet today.”

Preoccupied with the turn her life had taken this morning. “Just tired,” she fibbed.

“Hungry?”

She glanced at him. “Grumpy or Bashful or Doc?”

He laughed at her reference to the Seven Dwarfs from Snow White. “I’m going to need some lunch pretty soon.”

“We just started.”

“Yeah, but we started really close to lunchtime.”

She smiled. Small and wiry, not an ounce overweight, Rene Baxter was an eating machine. Where he put it, she had no clue. “Let’s do this one and another, then we’ll break.”

“Agreed. Tacos, chicken or burgers?”

“I’m sure Buster’d be happy with any of those, but I’m thinking tacos.”

“Can take the girl out of Texas but can’t take Texas out of the girl.”

“You know it, partner.”

The Camry pulled to a stop in front of a three-story brick building. A big For Sale-Gabrielle Realty sign was propped up in the front window. Rene eased into the spot behind it, and they all climbed out.

Buster strained slightly against his lead, obviously anxious to get started. After all, this was what he had been trained for. For Buster, this was the juice.

You go, big boy.

The Realtor unlocked the door and they filed in. Stacy moved her gaze over the space. It appeared to have most recently been a restaurant or club.

Bob unleashed Buster, who began to do his thing. She watched the dog as he began his search, sniffing, totally focused. When he picked up on a scent, he would “alert.” There were two types of alerts, she had learned. The passive, in which the dog would sit, and the aggressive, where he would scratch.

“He’s found something,” Bob said. A moment later, the animal began pawing at an air-conditioning vent.

Obviously, Buster was a scratcher.

Stacy and Rene hurried over. The vent was located in the hallway that led to the bathrooms. The vent cover proved to be loose, and they removed it easily. Stacy eased out the air filter, which was filthy.

“Flashlight,” Stacy said. Bob handed her one and she directed the beam around the small space. “Empty.”

“Now,” Bob said. “But I promise you, there were drugs in there at least once.”

“How’d you do that?” Rene asked. “How’d you know he’d found something before he did?”

Bob laughed and scratched Buster’s head. “His breathing. It changed.”

Stacy’s cell phone vibrated; she separated from the group and answered. It was Spencer.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey to you.”

“How’s it going?”

“Pretty great. Buster just got excited.”

“Where are you?”

“Used to be a supper club. On South Peters, in the Warehouse District.”

He was silent, and she cleared her throat. “What’s up?”

“I don’t want you to move out.”

She tightened her grip on the phone. “I can’t talk about this right now.”

“I know. I just…I wanted you to know that.”

“Thanks,” she said softly. “We’ll talk later.”

Stacy ended the call and slipped the device back into its holster. The moment she did, it vibrated. She unclipped it and saw from the caller ID, it was Spencer again.

“Yo,” she said.

“What was the name of the club?”

“Don’t know, signage is gone. Why?”

“Curious more than anything. Ask Baxter if he knows.”

She did. Rene looked momentarily perplexed, then grinned. “The Cosmopolitan,” he said. “Was the hot place for about a year. Sported a bar made out of ice.”

She relayed the information; Spencer whistled. “That place belonged to Aunt Patti’s friend June. And her brother Riley. They shut it down after Katrina. Didn’t know they’d decided to sell.”

“Bet they didn’t know their listing agent was a drug dealer. I might need to question them. Got a number?”

He gave it to her and hung up.

While she had been on the phone, Buster had searched the rest of the space-and come up empty.

“Next address?” Stacy asked, eager to move on.

Rene must have been eager as well; he agreed with no mention of tacos at all.

Three and a half hours later, they had visited fifteen of the thirty addresses-and Buster had alerted at every one of them.

They had Gabrielle now. He had been using his listings as drop-off and pickup points for his meth business. The storage place had been the same in every one-an air-conditioning vent.

Rather ingenious, Stacy thought, using vacant commercial properties. A “Realtor” meets “prospective buyers.” No chance of neighbors becoming suspicious at the comings and goings of strangers.

Just another real estate showing.

Too bad Gabrielle was dead. She would have loved busting him.

Too bad for Borger, too. At present she was their only link to Gabrielle’s drug trade.

As she and Baxter wolfed down Mexican fast food, they decided to split up. He would continue on with Buster and Bob while she would start questioning property owners, mostly as a formality.

Beginning with Patti’s friends, the Bensons. Curiously, they owned three of the properties on Yvette’s list.

As a courtesy, she notified Patti.

“I’ll bet they’re at the gallery,” she said. “Pieces. On Julia Street. If you don’t mind, I’ll meet you there.”

“No problem at all. I’m leaving now.”

Patti was waiting in her car when Stacy arrived. Stacy climbed out of her SUV and together they crossed to the gallery’s double glass doors and stepped inside.

The current exhibition was of large, vigorously executed paintings, their subject matter highly abstracted portraits and landscapes. Like the art galleries she had visited before-and there had been many as her sister, Jane, was an artist-the interior was spare, the walls white, the floors muted. In this case, stained, scored concrete.

Nothing about the interior would distract, clash or interfere with the artwork.

June stood behind an elegant writing desk located between the two viewing rooms. She was on the phone. When she spotted them, her face lit up. “I’ve got to go. I’ll call you back.”

“Patti!” she cried, hurrying over. “What a surprise!”

She hugged Patti, then turned to her with a warm smile. “Stacy, it’s good to see you again.”

Stacy returned the smile. “Likewise.”

The woman shifted her gaze back to Patti expectantly. “Please tell me you’ve finally decided to add some color to your walls? Something other than Jazz Fest and Mardi Gras posters?”